


Changes

by Wrathofscribbles



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22424353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: Nothing's the same, not even Noctis.But Prompto would recognise him anywhere.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 8
Kudos: 53





	Changes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MysteriousBean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysteriousBean/gifts).



> **Big bold reminder that I don't own FFXV or any of its content and characters. It's the property of Square Enix, and I still cry over Noct's fate.**
> 
> This is related to the daemon!Noct AU, but might be an AU of that AU lol. Not sure yet.

Hands - they don't end in claws. The fingers he'd clamped 'round his father's ring aren't burnt and oozing and cracked open to the bone. The wrists aren't rough to the touch, lined with scales and scars. His touch isn't _cold_ , like Shiva's kiss or the bite of metal sliding through his gut or -

Wait. He's not bleeding. He's not _dying_. Is he already dead? No, no he hurts too much for that. Like he's been smooshed flat by Gladio's jeep, or trampled by a behemoth, or _had a vengeful Astral raining swords from the heavens and knocking buildings down on his head._

Those hands again, working up his body, drawing a whine of protest with every ache and pain and broken bone they encounter. They're not the _same_.

That voice, too. There's no rasp to it now, no rough edge from disuse. He doesn't sound _pained_ , just frantic, tripping over his words in panic, begging Prompto to open his eyes, to speak, to move, to do _something_. It's wrong, he thinks, for such worry to be there, and manages to figure out where his own hand is (attached to his wrist, which is good, and flapping around when he lifts from his elbow, which is also good, is he still in one piece? He hopes so, it'd suck royal balls to be strewn around in several parts) and slap it down. The presence hovering over him freezes, his _name_ whispered on a strained breath and that won't do at _all_.

"'m fine," he wheezes through a lungful of dust, dares to _look_ and immediately regrets it when bright light assaults his eyeballs, his rescuer a dark smudge in the middle.

 _"Prompto,"_ his name again, as reverent as a prayer, and he feels around until he can follow their arm up to their shoulder, to their neck, to the back of their head. There's gunk lodged in the hair, all manner of things he can guess at and discards _immediately_ if only so his stomach doesn't make a bid for freedom via his mouth, and he pats at the skull it's all plastered to, garbling an effort to say _there there, 'sokay._

Magic then, warmth unspooling under his skin and through his blood and settling into his bones, not the jagged shards of help wrapped up in a daemon's touch but something infinitely more tender, familiar and not and _odd_. Prompto sighs in relief, then, as the many hurts screaming for his attention quiet to a dull throb, risks a glance again now that he _knows_ to expect sunlight.

Those little differences, piled one on top of another. Hints at a _change_ , one he never thought he'd live to see, one he never thought _possible_ , and yet. He knows his saviour, knows him _well._

Noctis's eyes aren't amber anymore. They're blue, too dark for the sky and too light for the ocean. They're not haunted, either, just worried. And tired, but he thinks they all have a right to exhaustion after - everything. They're fucking _gorgeous_. _He's_ gorgeous. And -

"You're not a daemon anymore!"

\- he smiles, and Prompto wants to see it every day for the rest of his life.

"No, I'm not. I'm surprised you still recognise me," Noctis replies, voice soft and _human_ and missing all the growling malice he'd grown so used to. Prompto snorts, just a tiny bit offended, and curls his fingers so he can yank Noctis down and slant his mouth over his.

There's no cloying sweetness in the taste of him anymore, no Scourge in his saliva. The fangs are gone, too. Of every little daemonic trait, he thinks he'll miss _those_ the most.

"Of course I recognise you, you dumbass," he says, when he draws back for air, stays close enough to nudge his nose against Noct's. A stupid little gesture he _returns_ , just like he did when he was definitely not human, and Prompto's heart wells up and turns over. It's him, it's Noctis, no matter the form it's _him_. " _I love you."_


End file.
